THE AUTUMNAL FLOWER. WRITTEN IN THE ISLAND OF MALTA. AH why, when all the scene around Ah why, soft flow'ret, dost thou dare Thou should'st have hail'd the vernal tide, Then many a morning's sunny sheen And many a dewy eve had seen Thee close unhurt thy tender bells. Soft fostering gales had made their care But summer's golden reign is o'er, Already o'er the sea-girt hill The blasts that lead the tempest blow; Soft flower, thy fate the Wanderer mourns, Poor flower! before those rays once more No sunny morn shall call thee forth, So fades each hope, so fades each joy And prompt the poet's glowing song! For disappointment rules the day, And straight the fond delusions flee, And shed their bloom, and fade away, And shrink, and die, sweet flower! like thee. Then die!-upon thy hapless state “No, stranger!—thy complaint forbear!" Methinks a gentle voice replies. (Softly it steals upon mine ear, And from thy petals seems to rise.) "Mourn not the flow'ret's fate; for here "No-in this favour'd clime his reign "Is mark'd with one continual smile: "The young herb ventures forth again, "And life inspires the teeming soil. "Behold the ripening orange swell "In golden contour to the view; "The vi'let lurks in yonder dell, "And drinks unharm'd the morning dew. N "What though with mirk and low'ring clouds, "That all the morning sky deform, "Pale eve her waning light enshrouds, "And chilly gales portend the storm; "Those threatening gales no winter bear; "I see where all thy error lies: "Some foreign region gave thee birth; "Some clime where half the year denies "Its wonted vigour to the earth. "Still on that clime thou keep'st thine eye, "Still bring'st its distant prospects near, "And think'st (forgot the change of sky) "To find thine own November here." True! gentle monitor; aright Thou hast my error's cause divin'd; The spot where first I hail'd the light Is hence by many a league disjoin'd. Full oft I turn the mental eye To trace each well-known scene again: Full oft by fancy's aid descry Each shady grove and grassy plain. Across the ocean borne afar, To every fond connexion lost, My mind with boding gloom opprest 'Tis hence those fond ideas spring In vain the radiant step of Spring To these I go.-Farewel, sweet flower! Thou rocky, sea-girt isle, farewel! Where hostile strangers* strive for power, And fear and superstition dwell. Yon vessel in the bay below To-morrow bears me o'er the foam; And some returning morn shall show A land of freedom and a home. *The siege of Malta was at that time carrying on |